#sometimes i let him bite hirelings

[bg-brainrot]

I have an Astarion confession to make...

I don't actually let him bite my Tavs very often.

I know, basically unforgivable. My only real excuse is: I genuinely forget until I'm partway through combat and go, ooo bite!

My dumb ADHD ass can't keep my poor vampire boyfriend fed, much like it can't keep me fed...

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Friends? and festivities!

Tags: @salamancialilypad  @whumpfigure @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee  @ashintheairlikesnow   @haro-whumps   @moose-teeth @vickytokio​ @yet-another-heathen @orchidscript

Chapter 1

CW: We’re off to a fairly relaxed start with only mild whumpy undertones in this one

The warm summer breeze carried a whiff of lavender from the safe zone’s border into the village and Charlotte’s blouse stuck to her skin while she strolled through dusty streets.

People laughed as they hurried past her and Kaja, carrying fresh bread, flower garlands, and pieces of fruit to the marketplace. The Bromberg twins chased after a roly-poly, screaming after the poor creature that scuttled up a rooftop to escape its fate as a chitin-shelled pony knock-off. Charlotte felt giddy just thinking about tomorrow's festival. She’d seen Mara run around the orphanage with a strawberry bigger than her head today, declaring it the undefeatable champion among the offerings.

Kaja chattered beside her, overflowing with life while they made their way out the village center. Charlotte had always found her effervescence oddly infectious and wished she had more in common with the blonde, toothy-smiled woman than blue eyes and their love for dancing. But where Kaja was all round, warm cheeks with a heart soft as her belly, Charlotte had always been rough edged, restless. 

“I wonder how big the watermelons are gonna be this year,” Kaja mused. Her pale green skirt fluttered in the breeze.  “Hey Charlotte. What do you think? Will six people fit in one this time?”

“Six toddlers maybe,” Charlotte quirked a pale eyebrow. “You know that the mutation cycle needs more than a year to double plants in size.”

Her eyes flitted over the forest, its endless expanse encircling the village’s border. In the far distance, colossal trees cast the land under them in darkness. Colored patches on maps eternally midnight-black.

“But what is our knowledge worth, if the only thing we can say for sure is that we know nothing about the woods.”

“Party pooper.” Kaja grinned, long skirt puffing as she twirled around. “We’ve got a festival to organize. There’s no time for long faces.”

“I’m merely-“

“Miss Kaja, Charlotte. Hello!”  Micha’s voice boomed from up ahead and both women turned to the bakery, smiling at the young man leaning in the doorway.

A few black curls stuck out from underneath his white cap, drawn down to hide flushed cheeks. He was covered in specks of flour, white smudges were smeared all over his apron and forearms.

Kajas face lit up as they strolled over to the red brick house, tucked between the street's curve and a grassy hill, solitary and half swallowed by ivy. Only the display window’s nook was meticulously cut free and filled with cream pies and cookies.

“Hey Micha,” Kaja beamed, “Say, have you planned something for tomorrow?”

A bright smile split his lips, eyebrows raising conspiratorially as he leaned closer. His  voice dropped into a sing-song whisper. “That’s a secret.”

Charlotte huffed a laugh. “Mind to give us a tip?”

“Nah.”  Micha flicked his cap’s brim up. “M not gonna spill. Y ’all’ll see tomorrow.”  

“Okay mister mysterious. Tomorrow then,” Kaja smiled, skirt swishing around her ankles as she turned to leave. Giving one last wave over her shoulder, Charlotte strolled after her.

Micha flushed red like his brick house, gawking after the two as they strode up the hill road. “Yeah. See ya.”

Charlotte nudged Kajas shoulder, unable to contain a snicker.  “Mister mysterious, hm?!”

The tease tinted Kajas cheeks pink. “So what?! Wait till we’re at the farm and you see snail-boy again.”

Charlotte bristled, upper lip curling back as she hurried ahead to the roadside where little stone steps parted the bushes and cut their narrow path through thick underwood; up to the snail farm.

“He is just- We are merely trading books. Sometimes!” She took two steps at a time, grumbling. “It’s not like we're close or anything.”

                                                  –

The old two story house stood proud on its little plateau, encircled by tree roots so massive they nearly reached its shingle roof. Its bricks had been laid one at a time, many summers ago, and little extensions had grown over the years, some extra rooms that stuck out from one side, the kitchen with its thatched roof. The grass surrounding it was short, completely gone in some muddy patches where it had fallen victim to the snail’s insatiable hunger. They roamed the forest floor, finding every new sapling, eating every fresh blossom, and kept the ever growing woods at bay.

Every other day Sahar would herd them onto the orphanage’s grounds, reading while the snails feasted. He would sit in a patch of shadow, nose buried in a book - just like he was now, back resting against the root beside the tiny staircase that led up to the plateau.  His short hair stuck up every which way and his dark boots were covered in grass stains. The big silvery-white scar on his right arm was barely visible in the shade.  

Charlotte watched with a smile as Sahar gently pushed a snail’s head down, away from the fruit pieces beside him, snickering as it retracted one eye.

“Really Asmodea?” He murmured. “Didn’t didn’t, didn’t I just feed you an, an hour ago?”

Kaja knocked on the low wooden gate to their front yard and Sahar flinched. He had always been jumpy, Charlotte wondered.

“Hey there. It’s us. Say, are Moira and Ansgar home?”

The book slipped from his fingers as he leaped to his feet. His voice barely carried over the short distance. “Hey, hello, hi. Yeah, yes. They’re home.  I- I’ll, I’ll go get them. Come in. The- the, the the snails don’t bite.” His nervous smile faltered. “Well, with- without having teeth and and and all-“

Sahar bit his lip, stopping himself, before he hopped over the root and vanished behind big wooden doors into the house.

                                                        –

Charlotte had never been inside the farm before, had only ever seen the grey bearded farmer and his wife down in the teahouse chatting with others or when they had to run some errands. Back before Sahar had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Since then, he’d been the one to handle their affairs, readily shooed this way and that.

Ansgar had simply dragged the boy into the teahouse one day, declaring him his new hireling without bothering to explain where he had come from or how a mere child had survived the outsides! Eight years later the question still remained, lingered over the dimly lit marketplace like teapot steam. The people had given up their questions and inquisitions, at least. Their storm of curiosity had burst against the couple’s stone set silence.  

Charlotte had barely followed the discussion about the snail riding they planned to organize at the orphanage tomorrow,  too preoccupied by Sahar entering the living room while he balanced five cups and a teapot on a tray, setting it carefully onto the table. Its wooden surface was worn smooth over countless shared meals and long evenings filled with games and chatter.

A faint eucalyptus smell tickled her nose as Sahar timidly slid a cup over to her and she couldn’t help but wonder how on earth they had gotten their hands on eucalyptus? The last delivery of it had been years ago.

Charlotte watched Sahar drag a stool over from beside the high, over-cramped bookshelf, so small he had to kneel on it to be on eye level with the rest of them, and took a first tentative sip.

Chamomile?! Had her nose played a trick on her?

“We really should get going.There’s just so much left to organize.” An apologetically smile danced on Kaja’s lips, turning mischievous. “But we’ll come back for another round of tea soon. Right, Charlotte?”

She shot Kaja an irritated look, catching Moiras knowing grin. The woman’s slim observant eyes crinkled with her crooked smile. Moira’s greying, artfully pinned locks swished softly as she turned to Sahar. “I’ll bet our little barista will gladly serve you again? Isn’t that true, Sahar?”

Sunkissed brown fingers drummed a soft rhythm against the artfully painted clay of his tea cup as he mumbled, “Yes.” 

Coughing, Ansgar stacked their cups in two neat little piles on the tray. “There’s really lots t’ do. But let’s take ya down the road a bit. It’ll do us all good gettin’ some fresh air.”

Both she and Sahar hurried to get up, grateful for the distraction. He grabbed the tray, smiling at Ansgar on his way to the kitchen.  

[imbicuriousyeah]

princess bride: chapter two

pairing: jiyong/reader

genre: angst/drama/fantasy

word count: 3.1k

Prince Seungri was shaped like a barrel. His chest was a great barrel chest, his thighs mighty barrel thighs. He was not tall but he weighed close to 250 pounds, brick hard. He walked like a crab, side to side, and probably if he had wanted to be a ballet dancer, he would have been doomed to a miserable life of endless frustration. But he didn’t want to be a ballet dancer. He wasn’t in that much of a hurry to be king either. Even war, at which he excelled, took second place in his affections. Everything took second place in his affections.

Hunting was his love.

He made it a practice never to let a day go by without killing something. It didn’t much matter what. When he first grew dedicated, he killed only big things: elephants or pythons. But then, as his skills increased, he began to enjoy the suffering of little beasts too. He could happily spend an afternoon tracking a flying squirrel across forests or a rainbow trout down rivers. Once he was determined, once he had focused on an object, the Prince was relentless. He never tired, never wavered, neither ate nor slept. It was death chess and he was international grand master.

In the beginning, he traversed the world for opposition. But travel consumed time, ships and horses being what they were, and the time away from Florin was worrying. There always had to be a male heir to the throne, and as long as his father was alive, there was no problem. But someday his father would die and then the Prince would be the king and he would have to select a queen to supply an heir for the day of his own death.

So to avoid the problem of absence, Prince Seungri built the Zoo of Death. He designed it himself with Count Jinyoung’s help, and he sent his hirelings across the world to stock it for him. It was kept brimming with things that he could hunt, and it really wasn’t like any other animal sanctuary anywhere. In the first place, there were never any visitors. Only the albino keeper, to make sure the beasts were properly fed, and that there was never any sickness or weakness inside.

The other thing about the Zoo was that it was underground. The Prince picked the spot himself, in the quietest, remotest corner of the castle grounds. And he decreed there were to be five levels, all with the proper needs for his individual enemies. On the first level, he put enemies of speed: wild dogs, cheetahs, hummingbirds. On the second level belonged the enemies of strength: anacondas and rhinos and crocodiles of over twenty feet. The third level was for poisoners: spitting cobras, jumping spiders, death bats galore. The fourth level was the kingdom of the most dangerous, the enemies of fear: the shrieking tarantula (the only spider capable of sound), the blood eagle (the only bird that thrived on human flesh), plus, in its own black pool, the sucking squid. Even the albino shivered during feeding time on the fourth level.

The fifth level was empty.

The Prince constructed it in the hopes of someday finding something worthy, something as dangerous and fierce and powerful as he was.

Unlikely. Still, he was an eternal optimist, so he kept the great cage of the fifth level always in readiness.

And there was really more than enough that was lethal on the other four levels to keep a man happy. The Prince would sometimes choose his prey by luck—he had a great wheel with a spinner and on the outside of the wheel was a picture of every animal in the Zoo and he would twirl the spinner at breakfast, and wherever it stopped, the albino would ready that breed. Sometimes he would choose by mood: “I feel quick today; fetch me a cheetah” or “I feel strong today, release a rhino.” And whatever he requested, of course, was done.

He was ringing down the curtain on an orangutan when the business of the King’s health made its ultimate intrusion. It was midafternoon, and the Prince had been grappling with the giant beast since morning, and finally, after all these hours, the hairy thing was weakening. Again and again, the monkey tried to bite, a sure sign of failure of strength in the arms. The Prince warded off the attempted bites with ease, and the ape was heaving at the chest now, desperate for air. The Prince made a crablike step sidewise, then another, then darted forward, spun the great beast into his arms, began applying pressure to the spine. (This was all taking place in the ape pit, where the Prince had his pleasure with any simians.) From up above now, Count Jinyoung’s voice interrupted. “There is news,” the Count said.

From battle, the Prince replied. “Cannot it wait?”

“For how long?” asked the Count.

C

  R

     A

        C

           K

The orangutan fell like a rag doll. “Now, what is all this,” the Prince replied, stepping past the dead beast, mounting the ladder out of the pit.

“Your father has had his annual physical,” the Count said. “I have the report.”

“And?”

“Your father is dying.”

“Drat!” said the Prince. “That means I shall have to get married.”

Four of them met in the great council room of the castle. Prince Seungri, his confidant, Count Jinyoung, his father, aging King Lotharon, and Queen Bella, his evil stepmother. Queen Bella was shaped like a gumdrop. And colored like a raspberry. She was easily the most beloved person in the kingdom, and had been married to the King long before he began mumbling. Prince Seungri was but a child then, and since the only stepmothers he knew were the evil ones from stories, he always called Bella that, or “E. S.” for short. “All right,” the Prince began when they were all assembled. “Who do I marry? Let’s pick a bride and get it done.” Aging King Lotharon said, “I’ve been thinking it’s really getting to be about time for Seungri to pick a bride.” He didn’t actually so much say that as mumble it: “I’ve beee mumbbble mumbbble Seunmummmble engamumble.” Queen Bella was the only one who bothered ferreting out his meanings any more. “You couldn’t be righter, dear,” she said, and she patted his royal robes. “What did he say?” “He said whoever we decided on would be getting a thunderously handsome prince for a lifetime companion.” “Tell him he’s looking quite well himself,” the Prince returned. “We’ve only just changed miracle men,” the Queen said. “That accounts for the improvement.” “You mean you fired Miracle Minho?” Prince Seungri said. “I thought he was the only one left.” “No, we found another one up in the mountains and he’s quite extraordinary. Old, of course, but then, who wants a young miracle man?” “Tell him I’ve changed miracle men,” King Lotharon said. It came out: “Tell mumble mirumble mumble.” “What did he say?” the Prince wondered. “He said a man of your importance couldn’t marry just any princess.” “True, true,” Prince Seungri said. He sighed. Deeply. “I suppose that means Noreena.” “That would certainly be a perfect match politically,” Count Jinyoung allowed. Princess Noreena was from Guilder, the country that lay just across Florin Channel. (In Guilder, they put it differently; for them, Florin was the country on the other side of the Channel of Guilder.) In any case, the two countries had stayed alive over the centuries mainly by warring on each other. There had been the Olive War, the Tuna Fish Discrepancy, which almost bankrupted both nations, the Roman Rift, which did send them both into insolvency, only to be followed by the Discord of the Emeralds, in which they both got rich again, chiefly by banding together for a brief period and robbing everybody within sailing distance. “I wonder if she hunts, though,” said Seungri. “I don’t care so much about personality, just so they’re good with a knife.” “I saw her several years ago,” Queen Bella said. “She seemed lovely, though hardly muscular. I would describe her more as a knitter than a doer. But again, lovely.” “Skin?” asked the Prince.

“Marbleish,” answered the Queen.

“Lips?”

“Number or color?” asked the Queen.

“Color, E. S.”

“Roseish. Cheeks the same. Eyes largeish, one blue, one green.”

“Hmmm,” said Seungri. “And form?”

“Hourglassish. Always clothed divineishly. And, of course, famous throughout Guilder for the largest hat collection in the world.”

“Well, let’s bring her over here for some state occasion and have a look at her,” said the Prince.

“Isn’t there a princess in Guilder that would be about the right age?” said the King. It came out: “Mum-cess Guilble, abumble mumble?”

“Are you never wrong?” said Queen Bella, and she smiled into the weakening eyes of her ruler.

“What did he say?” wondered the Prince.

“That I should leave this very day with an invitation,” replied the Queen.

So began the great visit of the Princess Noreena.

What happens is just this: Queen Bella packs most of her wardrobe and travels to Guilder. In Guilder she unpacks, then tenders the invitation to Princess Noreena. Princess Noreena accepts, then she packs all her clothes and hats and, together, the Princess and the Queen travel back to Florin for the annual celebration of the founding of Florin City. They reach King Lotharon’s castle, where Princess Noreena is shown her quarters and unpacks all the same clothes and hats she had just packed a few days before.

Anyway, things pick up a bit once the Prince and Princess meet and spend the day. Noreena did have, as advertised, marbleish skin, roseish lips and cheeks, largeish eyes, one blue, one green, hourglassish form, and easily the most extraordinary collection of hats ever assembled. Wide brimmed and narrow, some tall, some not, some fancy, some colorful, some plaid, some plain. She doted on changing hats at every opportunity. When she met the Prince, she was wearing one hat, when he asked her for a stroll, she excused herself, shortly to return wearing another, equally flattering. Things went on like this throughout the day.

Dinner was held in the Great Hall of Lotharon’s castle. Ordinarily, they would all have supped in the dining room, but, for an event of this importance, that place was simply too small. So tables were placed end to end along the center of the Great Hall, an enormous drafty spot that was given to being chilly even in the summertime. There were many doors and giant entrance ways, and the wind gusts sometimes reached gale force.

This night was more typical than less; the winds whistled constantly and the candles constantly needed relighting, and some of the more daringly dressed ladies shivered. But Prince Seungri didn’t seem to mind, and in Florin, if he didn’t, you didn’t either.

At 8:23 there seemed every chance of a lasting alliance starting between Florin and Guilder.

At 8:24 the two nations were very close to war.

What happened was simply this: at 8:23 and five seconds, the main course of the evening was ready for serving. The main course was essence of brandied pig, and you need a lot of it to serve five hundred people. So in order to hasten the serving, a giant double door that led from the kitchen to the Great Hall was opened. The giant double door was on the north end of the room. The door remained open throughout what followed.

The proper wine for essence of brandied pig was in readiness behind the double door that led eventually to the wine cellar. This double door was opened at 8:23 and ten seconds in order that the dozen wine stewards could get their kegs quickly to the eaters. This double door, it might be noted, was at the south end of the room.

At this point, an unusually strong cross wind was clearly evident. Prince Seungri did not notice, because at that moment, he was whispering with the Princess Noreena of Guilder. He was cheek to cheek with her, his head under her wide-brimmed blue-green hat, which brought out the exquisite color in both of her largeish eyes.

At 8:23 and twenty seconds, King Lotharon made his somewhat belated entrance to the dinner. He was always belated now, had been for years, and in the past people had been known to starve before he got there. But of late, meals just began without him, which was fine with him, since his new miracle man had taken him off meals anyway. The King entered through the King’s Door, a huge hinged thing that only he was allowed to use. It took several servants in excellent condition to work it. It should be reported that the King’s Door was always in the east side of any room, since the King was, of all people, closest to the sun.

What happened then has been variously described as a norther or a sou’wester, depending on where you were seated in the room when it struck, but all hands agree on one thing: at 8:23 and twenty-five seconds, it was pretty gusty in the Great Hall.

Most of the candles lost their flames and toppled, which was only important because a few of them fell, still burning, into the small kerosene cups that were placed here and there across the banquet table so that the essence of brandied pig could be properly flaming when served. Servants rushed in from all over to put out the flames, and they did a good enough job, considering that everything in the room was flying this way, that way, fans and scarves and hats.

Particularly the hat of Princess Noreena.

It flew off to the wall behind her, where she quickly retrieved it and put it properly on. That was at 8:23 and fifty seconds. It was too late.

At 8:23:55 Prince Seungri rose roaring, the veins in his thick neck etched like hemp. There were still flames in some places, and their redness reddened his already blood-filled face. He looked, as he stood there, like a barrel on fire. He then said to Princess Noreena of Guilder the five words that brought the nations to the brink.

“Madam, feel free to flee!”

And with that he stormed from the Great Hall. The time was then 8:24.

Prince Seungri made his angry way to the balcony above the Great Hall and stared down at the chaos. The fires were still in places flaming red, guests were pouring out through the doors and Princess Noreena, hatted and faint, was being carried by her servants far from view.

Queen Bella finally caught up with the Prince, who stormed along the balcony clearly not yet in control. “I do wish you hadn’t been quite so blunt,” Queen Bella said.

The Prince whirled on her. “I’m not marrying any bald princess, and that’s that!”

“No one would know,” Queen Bella explained. “She has hats even for sleeping.”

“I would know,” cried the Prince. “Did you see the candlelight reflecting off her skull?”

“But things would have been so good with Guilder,” the Queen said, addressing herself half to the Prince, half to Count Jinyoung, who now joined them.

“Forget about Guilder. I’ll conquer it sometime. I’ve been wanting to ever since I was a kid anyway.” He approached the Queen. “People snicker behind your back when you’ve got a bald wife, and I can do without that, thank you. You’ll just have to find someone else.”

“Who?”

“Find me somebody, she should just look nice, that’s all.”

“That Noreena has no hair,” King Lotharon said, puffing up to the others. “Nor-umble mumble humble.”

“Thank you for pointing that out, dear,” said Queen Bella.

“I don’t think Seungri will like that,” said the King. “Dumble Humble Mumble.”

Then Count Jinyoung stepped forward. “You want someone who looks nice; but what if she’s a commoner?”

“The commoner the better,” Prince Seungri replied, pacing again.

“What if she can’t hunt?” the Count went on.

“I don’t care if she can’t spell,” the Prince said. Suddenly he stopped and faced them all. “I’ll tell you what I want,” he began then. “I want someone who is so beautiful that when you see her you say, ‘Wow, that Seungri must be some kind of fella to have a wife like that.’ Search the country, search the world, just find her!”

Count Jinyoung could only smile. “She is already found,” he said.

It was dawn when the two horsemen reined in at the hilltop. Count Jinyoung rode a splendid black horse, large, perfect, powerful. The Prince rode one of his whites. It made Jinyoung’s mount seem like a plow puller.

“She delivers milk in the mornings,” Count Jinyoung said.

“And she is truly-without-question-no-possibility-of-error beautiful?”

“She was something of a mess when I saw her,” the Count admitted. “But the potential was overwhelming.”

“A milkmaid.” The Prince ran the words across his rough tongue. “I don’t know that I could wed one of them even under the best of conditions. People might snicker that she was the best I could do.”

“True,” the Count admitted. “If you prefer, we can ride back to Florin City without waiting.”

“We’ve come this far,” the Prince said. “We might as well wai—” His voice quite simply died. “I’ll take her,” he managed, finally, as you rode slowly by below them.

“No one will snicker, I think,” the Count said.

“I must court her now,” said the Prince. “Leave us alone for a minute.” He rode the white expertly down the hill.

You had never seen such a giant beast. Or such a rider.

“I am your Prince and you will marry me,” Seungri said.

You whispered, “I am your servant and I refuse.”

“I am your Prince and you cannot refuse.”

“I am your loyal servant and I just did.”

“Refusal means death.”

“Kill me then.”

“I am your Prince and I’m not that bad—how could you rather be dead than married to me?”

“Because,” you said, “marriage involves love, and that is not a pastime at which I excel. I tried once, and it went badly, and I am sworn never to love another.”

“Love?” said Prince Seungri. “Who mentioned love? Not me, I can tell you. Look: there must always be a male heir to the throne of Florin. That’s me. Once my father dies, there won’t be an heir, just a king. That’s me again. When that happens, I’ll marry and have children until there is a son. So you can either marry me and be the richest and most powerful woman in a thousand miles and give turkeys away at Christmas and provide me a son. Or you can die in terrible pain in the very near future. Make up your own mind.”

“I’ll never love you.”

“I wouldn’t want it if I had it.”

“Then by all means let us marry.”

What with one thing and another, three years passed.

masterpost

[pencil-or-ink-blog]

The Nereid and the Seachild

Day One

In the back of the bar, tucked away in a corner of the employee break room, covered in years of dust and mildew, there was an old vending machine. Nobody knew how long it had been there, and nobody had ever seen anyone come to restock it, and as such, nobody ever touched the thing. It sat there, soaking up the flickering power through the socket in the wall, the glass sometimes bumping with the bass from the heavy music that came from the main floor, shifting through the very walls and making the machine jump like it was dancing and didn’t care who watched.

Some of the employees talked about it on their breaks, passing jokes about how it was haunted, how it contained the ghost of a mermaid who’d washed up on shore half a century ago and died, her lost spirit settling here, where lost spirits always seemed to find themselves.

The boy liked the stories the men and women told. He liked the rough way they spoke, coloring their tales with a spattering of foul language and vulgar hand movements. He watched them from the broken metal chair in the corner opposite the mysterious vending machine. Nobody ever occupied that chair; nobody would sit on it, afraid it might break beneath them. The boy didn’t like standing too much, though, and his bones always needed a break after the first seven hours of cleaning the floor, the bathrooms, and the abandoned tables, so he’d sink his weary frame onto the metal surface carefully so as to not dislodge the weakened legs too much.

He preferred it when he was given a break with another employee or two. He liked the company, though he never spoke, and he liked the tales they told.

But sometimes, the floor was too busy to let too many people go at once, and the boy found himself alone in the break room, with nothing but the soft buzz of electricity from the vending machine and the beat of the bass thumping through the room.

He hated those times, hated those breaks. He always found himself staring at the looming machine at the far back of the room, locked eye-to-eye in a staring contest with something he wasn’t quite convinced was truly inanimate. In those times, the boy felt a deep, stirring need to reach out, to touch the cracked plastic and grungy glass. He wondered what the chocolate bars inside were like. Had they disintegrated to dust? Or did the ghost of the mermaid keep them in some magical stasis?

Often, he wouldn’t even make it to his chair in the corner. If he was alone, he might spend the entire break facing the machine, wide-eyed, as the bulky object called to him like a siren. Come, it whispered. Come to me, child of the sea.

“No,” he would mouth, his rusty voice never cracking enough for sound to attach itself to the words. He hadn’t spoken, really spoken, in years. Sometimes, he wondered if he still could. Even the morning he was given this job hadn’t pulled any words from his mouth; the owner had simply taken pity on him, on his starving form sleeping in the alley near the employee entrance, and offered him a little bit of pay for a little bit of work.

The boy always knew that one day, he would give in. He would cross the room to that haunted box, and he would answer its siren call. He hadn’t expected today to be that day.

He was alone, staring up at the vending machine, his empty stomach churning in pain, his buzzing head faint and dizzy, a single coin weighing down his pocket, teasing him, for what could he buy with a single coin? Nothing, but a chocolate bar from the vending machine in the back of the employee break room.

Years later, he would blame the state of his mind for his actions that night.

He took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out, his feet shuffling slowly toward the looming object. He kept peeking over his shoulder, waiting for someone to come down the hallway and interrupt him, saving him from himself. But nobody came. The boy was alone, and quickly, his hand darted out, the single coin held tightly between his white fingers. He heard the clink as it fell through the slot, and he licked his dry lips and swallowed hard.

He couldn’t see what choices lied within through the thick caking of dust from years of disuse, but he could see that every row and every column was filled with some shape, so he threw caution to the wind and pressed a number at random.

The machine whirred to life, creaking and groaning as it performed actions it hadn’t been asked to perform in longer than anyone could remember. At first, the boy wasn’t sure if it would move at all, but then he could see the subtle shifting somewhere in the middle row, just to the left. It edged closer, a rectangular shape, and fell, with a thud, to the bottom of the machine.

The boy took a deep breath, knelt down, and pulled the bar of chocolate from the slot.

Nereus, it said, in large, white letters, twisted into the shape of seafoam, cresting over blue-green background. The chocolate inside was firm, solid, but not rock hard. Perhaps, beyond all miracles, it was still good. The boy had never heard a Nereus Bar before, but it didn’t matter, as long as he could eat it.

He held the bar close to his heart, pressed between his hands, and he opened his cracked lips to mouth a silent prayer. Please, he almost-whispered. Please. I need something good to come into my life. I’m drowning, and I don’t know if I can keep treading this water. Please, let something good happen.

He took the candy bar over to the trashcan in the corner and slowly peeled back the paper and foil, tucking the wrapper deep into his pocket. The chocolate had a strong, enticing scent, rushing to his head, but before he could lean down and take that first bite, it fell to dust in his fingers and sprinkled the top of the trash with chocolate dust.

The boy’s heart sank in his chest, his hopes of one small meal fallen. He dragged himself over to the broken, metal chair and sank slowly into it, defeated, his stomach growling in protest. He had nothing to offer it, and would have nothing for another two days as he waited for his paycheck to arrive.

When his twenty minutes was up, he slowly dragged himself back to the main floor, leaving his coat on the chair, and taking his broom with him as he went.

~*~

The music thumped through the bar, the rowdy patrons arguing loudly with each other just to be heard over the thick bass, and every jostle and sound got to the boy. His stomach was sick now with hunger, ready to heave its emptiness onto the floor in front of him, and his head was spinning. He tried swallowing to gain a little of his senses back, but his dry mouth would have none of it, and he only succeeded in choking on his throat. The owner had offered him the rest of the night off twice now, but each time the boy had shaken his head and doubled down in his work.

Every hour he lasted was another few dollars in his paycheck, and he needed that money. He needed it desperately.

When the owner finally left for home, well before the bar would close, he offered the boy the rest of the night off one last time, but when the boy yet again shook his head, he gave up, shrugged on his thick coat, and left through the back entrance. The boy breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t have to worry about being thrown out any longer; he just had to worry about staying upright and making it through the next five hours. 

He didn’t notice when the doors opened and a tall, svelte figure sauntered down the stairs into the cramped enclosure. He didn’t notice this figure sidle up to the bar and order a drink. He didn’t notice the way she eyed him, sipping slowly at her whiskey and coke as she examined his drooping form with the careful precision of one who had an important choice to make. The boy didn’t notice any of this; his whole attention was focused on surviving as he mopped the same space of floor over and over, having already forgotten what spilled in the first place.

~*~

Somehow, the boy managed to survive those last five hours. At the end, once all of the patrons had been ushered out onto the streets and the boy had only to clean the tables, put up the stools, sweep up the debris, and be on his way, he finally felt a pair of hands descend onto his shoulders. He jumped, his foggy mind grasping at some logical explanation for the interruption, but it was just the bartender, a young man with red hair and a bright curly beard. He smiled gently at the boy, and motioned with his head toward a seat at the bar.

“Come have a seat,” he said, an accent to his voice that the boy took great solace in. “You can get back to this in a minute,” he said.

Without waiting for a response, the bartender gently nudged the boy forward, leading his wobbly frame to a stool and helping him sit before jogging around to the other side of the bar and filling a clean glass with ice and coke with a deftness that comes from knowing your job well. The bartender had been here the second longest of anybody, aside from the owner himself. While most employees left after a month or two, moving on to bigger and better things, or at least moving as far away from the bar as they could, the bartender himself had managed almost six months. It was unheard of, but the boy had grown accustomed to his smiling face.

The boy himself, of course, had been there longer than all of them, almost two years, listening as the stories of the vending machine and its mermaid spirit were passed down to each new group of hirelings, twisted with each tongue that spun the yarns.

The boy swooned for a moment as a wave of nausea overtook him, and he grabbed onto the bar to keep from falling over. Without hesitation, the bartender reached over and put a hand on the boy’s upper arm to help steady him, the other palm going to the boy’s forehead to check for a temperature.

“Why are you out there working like this if you’re clearly not feeling well?” he asked, but the boy pulled away from the hand and rested his chin on the bar, looking around. He caught a whiff of something nearby, something tantalizing, and he perked up a little, looking around with desperation. Beside him, about an arm’s length away, was a paper take-home box. Steam wafted from the crack in the square clamshell, and when the bartender shook his head and turned back to the glass of coke the boy jerked his hand out and dragged the box closer.

The bartender laughed, depositing the drink on the wooden surface and passing it over to the boy. “Go ahead,” he said, even as the boy yanked his hand back, hiding it in his lap and looking away from the unoffered meal. The bartender opened the clamshell. “It’s for you. One of the patrons tonight came back when I was closing up and asked me to pass that along to you. It’s all yours.”

The boy looked, hardly believing, but there was no trick in the bartender’s eyes. He pulled the box of food toward him and eyed the thick, juicy burger and abundancy of golden fries, before reaching in and stuffing the food into his eager mouth, stopping only long enough to wash it down with a large swallow of coke now and again.

The boy ate quickly, and he ate everything, his extended stomach aching now with the fullness it wasn’t accustomed to. When he was done, he sat back and frowned at the empty container. If he’d just bothered to save some, he could have eaten tomorrow too, but saving food never seemed to go over with him. As soon as it was in his hands, he swallowed it, barely stopping long enough to chew.

Finally, he looked around. His head was beginning to clear up, and he wanted to take stock of how much work there really was left to do. But when he turned on the barstool to face the main floor, his stomach cramped in guilt and inadequacy. The bartender had finished bussing the tables and was sweeping the last of the debris into a dustpan on the far side of the main floor. The boy ducked his head, shameful over his inability to simply tend to the tasks of his job. 

The bartender came back, smiling brightly, and looked over the boy’s shoulder. “You done?” he asked, taking away the empty container of food and tossing it in a trashcan as he swept around the bar and quickly wiped it down. “Listen, don’t worry about tonight. I’ll let the boss know you stayed the full time and finished up. You look ready to keel over. You should go home and get some rest, alright?”

The boy winced lightly, but nodded, standing and slipping into the employee room to collect his coat. He was too deeply caught in his thoughts to look at the vending machine, to notice that some of the dust had begun to clear away, the mildew pulling back into the corners and disappearing. He wrapped himself up, oblivious to the whirring machine in the corner, and took the back exit out of the bar, avoiding the bartender as he slipped deeper and deeper into depression. He disappeared into the cold fall night, into the wind, the darkness, and the light smattering of rain that was just beginning to drizzle from the sky.

~*~

That night, for the first time, the boy saw the woman who had been eyeing him at the bar, the woman who had bought him food and handed it to the bartender outside as he’d been locking up. She was standing across the street, just outside of a used bookstore, her still form holding strong in the heavy winds even as the lampposts themselves shook in their encasements.

The boy was hunkered down behind a set of crates, against a dumpster, in his usual alley. He pulled his coat over him like a blanket, his arms through the sleeves to hold it in place, and watched her with intense curiosity. Her hair blew about, whipping around her face, and her clothes seemed to want to fly away with the spare newspapers and other trash debris, but she stood still, her eyes meeting his directly.

He was too exhausted to be concerned by her strange and sudden appearance in his life, and he didn’t know something was wrong around him until the expression on her face changed and twisted, her attention drawn up.

He looked in time to brace himself against a blow. His coat was yanked from him, held in place only by his arms, and a surge of panic rushed through his nerve endings. His muscles jumped and twitched as he struggled to understand what was happening, but he had enough sense to hold tight to the coat even as the stranger yanked on it, kicking at the boy’s side to force him to let go. “C’mon…c’mon,” the stranger grunted, desperately. “Just give it to me!” But the boy held tight, shielding his face as best as he could and crossing his arms.

The wind picked up, blowing in a different direction now, and the icy rain hit the boy’s face with a ferocity he hadn’t expected. His attacker was blown off balance, falling to the ground, and when the boy pushed himself back against the brick wall between the dumpster and the wooden crates and looked up, he saw the woman standing over the man, staring at him intently. There was a dark shape on her arm, a half-horse-half-fish creature that seemed to rear up in indignation as her muscles clenched and unclenched.

The man spooked, his eyes going wide, and he stood up and ran in the other direction. The boy’s heart pounded in his chest, a tight ache rivaled only by the sharp pains in his side from the man’s thick boot.

The woman turned her gaze on the boy again, and the boy’s body tightened, his breath catching in his throat. There was something about her eyes – something that terrified him. They contained a storm, capable of blowing him away as easily as she’d blown away his attacker, and when she took a step toward him, the boy leapt to his feet and jumped the crates, falling hard on his ankle on the other side. He ignored the sudden jab of pain, ignored his side, ignored his heart’s panicked thumping, and ran down the street.

The boy didn’t stop running until he’d lost himself in the maze of the city, and he breathed heavily and knelt down, holding the coat tightly to his chest – his victory prize. He huddled into a ball, wrapping the coat around himself once more, and fell asleep in an unfamiliar gutter, dreaming his usual nightmares of wild seas and sharp cliffs. But this time, a figure stood in the distance, crouched on a rock far out in the sea, her hair whipping around her, her intense eyes flashing with lighting as thunder crashed all around them.

[boxboysandotherwhump]

This first Chapter of ‘The forest and its teeth’ was proofread by the amazingly sweet @haro-whumps. Thank you a lot for this and all the things I learned from your comments. They were also a delight to read while editing <3

Tag list: @broken-horn @finder-of-rings  @haro-whumps  @voidwhump2 (if you don’t want to be tagged in this pls let me know)

                                                   --

 First a hunger plagued our world, equal to none. We searched and searched, desperate for a solution, and as we finally found one a forest of flowers swallowed our world whole.

Wastelands and cities blossomed into a garden, Eden. The planet became a manmade god of roots and spores. Unfathomable. Merciless.

And we were cast out of our own creation, like we were cast out of the garden. The forest was no place for humans.

The world may have forgotten hunger, but we would always know about the creatures that lurked in those omniferous woods. Creatures with mouths bigger than our own. We knew that we were the ones who put them there.

                                                    --

The warm summer breeze carried a whiff of lavender from the safe zone’s border into the village and made Charlotte’s translucent blouse cling to her sweaty skin, tickling her pale thighs as she strolled through dusty streets.

People laughed as they hurried past her and Kaja, carrying fresh bread, flower garlands, and pieces of fruit to the marketplace. The Bromberg twins chased after a roly-poly, screaming as the poor creature scuttled up a rooftop, escaping its fade as a chitin-shelled pony knock-off.  Charlotte felt giddy just thinking about tonight’s feast. She’d seen Mara run around the orphanage with a strawberry bigger than her head today, declaring it the undefeatable champion among the offerings.

Kaja chattered beside her, overflowing with life as they slowly made their way out the village center. Charlotte had always found her effervescence oddly infectious, and wished she had more in common with the blonde, toothy-smiled woman than just blue eyes and their love for dancing. But where Kaja was all round, warm cheeks with a heart soft as her belly, Charlotte had always been rough edged, restless, untamable, much like her unruly copper curls.

“I wonder how big the watermelons will be this year. Hey Charlotte, say, do you think six people will fit in one this time?!”

“Six toddlers maybe,” Charlotte jested. “You should know the mutation cycle needs more than a year to double plants in size.”

Her eyes flitted over the forest, its endless expanse encircling the village’s border. Some colossal trees in the far distance cast the land under them in darkness, colored patches on maps eternally midnight-black.

“But what is our knowledge worth anyway?”

“Party pooper.” Kaja grinned, long skirt puffing as she twirled around. “We’ve got a festival to organize. There’s no time for long faces.”

Charlotte huffed. “That’s how I always lo-“

“Miss Kaja, Charlotte. Hello!” Boomed Micha’s voice from up ahead, earning him a smile.

He leaned in the bakery’s doorway, flushed cheeks hidden under his cap’s brim. A few black curls stuck up from underneath it and he was covered in specks of flour, white smudges all over his apron and forearms.

Kajas face lit up as they strolled over to the small red house, tucked between the streets curve and a grassy hill, solitary and half swallowed by ivy. Only the display window’s nook was meticulously cut free and filled with cream pies and cookies.

“Hey Micha,” Kaja beamed, “Say, what have you planned for tomorrow?”

A bright smile split his lips and his eyebrows raised conspiratorially as he leaned closer, voice dropped into a whisper. “That’s a secret.”

Charlotte huffed a laugh. “Give us a tip?”

“Nah.”  Micha flicked his cap’s brim up. “‘m not gonna spill. Y ’all’ll see tomorrow.”  

“Okay mister mysterious. Tomorrow then,” Kaja said, skirt swishing around her ankles as she twirled away, Charlotte right behind her.

Micha flushed red as his brick house, gawking after the two as they strode up the hill road.

“Yeah. See ya.”

Nudging Kaja’s shoulder, Charlotte couldn’t contain a snicker. “Mister mysterious, hm?!”

The tease tinted Kajas cheeks pink. “So what?! Wait till we’re at the farm and you see snail boy again.”

Charlotte bristled, upper lip curling as she hurried ahead to the roadside where little stone steps parted the bushes, cutting their narrow path through thick underwood up to the snail farm.

“He is just- We are just trading books sometimes!”

                                                     --

 The old two story house stood proud on its little plateau, encircled by roots so massive they nearly reached its shingle roof. Its bricks were laid one at a time, many summers ago, and little extensions had grown over the years, some extra rooms that stuck out from one side, the kitchen with its thatched roof. The grass surrounding it was short, completely gone in some muddy patches were it had fallen victim to the snail’s insatiable hunger. They roamed the forest floor, finding every new sapling, eating every fresh blossom, and kept the ever growing woods at bay.

Every few days Sahar would herd them onto the orphanage’s grounds, reading while the snails feasted. He would sit in a patch of shadow, nose buried in a book - just like he was sitting now, rested against the root beside the tiny staircase that lead up to the plateau.  His short hair stuck up every which way and his dark boots were covered in grass stains. The big silvery-white scar on his right arm was barely visible in the shade.  

Charlotte watched with a smile as Sahar pushed a snail’s head down gently, away from the fruit pieces beside him, snickering as it retracted one eye, offended.

“Really Asmodea?! Didn’t I just feed you an hour ago?”

Kaja knocked on the low wooden gate to their front yard and made Sahar flinch. He had always been jumpy, Charlotte wondered.

“Hello. Say, are Moira and Ansgar there?”

The book slipped from his hand as he jumped up and his voice barely carried over the short distance. “Ah, uhm, hi. Yeah I- I’ll go get them. Come in. The- the snails don’t bite.” His nervous smile faltered. “Well, without having teeth and all -uhm-“

He bit his lip, stopping himself, before he hopped over the root and vanished behind big wooden sliding doors into the house.

                                                          --

 Charlotte had never been inside the house before, had only ever seen the grey bearded farmer and his wife down in the teahouse chatting with others or when they had to run some errands, back before Sahar had seemingly appeared out of thin air. Since then, he’d been the one to handle their errands, readily shooed this way and that.

Ansgar had simply dragged the boy into the teahouse one day declaring him his new hireling and not bothered to explain where he had come from or how a mere child had survived the outsides?! Eight years later the question still remained, lingered over the dimly lit marketplace like teapot steam, but the people had given their inquisitions up. Their storm of curiosity had burst against the couple’s stone set silence.  

Charlotte had barely followed the discussion about the snail riding they planned to organize at the orphanage tomorrow, she was too preoccupied by Sahar entering the living room while he balanced five cups and a teapot on a tray, setting it carefully onto the table. Its wooden surface was worn smooth over countless shared meals and long evenings filled with games and chatter.

A faint eucalyptus smell tickled her nose as Sahar timidly slid a cup over to her and she couldn’t help but wonder how on earth they had gotten their hands on eucalyptus? The last delivery of it had been years ago.

Charlotte watched Sahar drag a stool over from beside the high, over-cramped bookshelf, so small he had to kneel on it to be on eye level with the rest of them, and took a first tentative sip.

Chamomile?! Had her nose played a trick on her?

“We really should get going.” Kaja smiled apologetically. “There’s just so much left to organize. But we’ll come back for another round of tea soon. Right Charlotte?”

She shot Kaja an irritated look and caught Moiras knowing grin. The woman’s slim observant eyes crinkled with her crooked smile. Moira’s greying, artfully pinned locks swished softly as she turned to Sahar. “I’ll bet our little barista will gladly serve you again? Right, Sahar?”

He fidgeted with his tea cup, not looking at anyone as a faint blush rose to his cheeks before mumbling softly, “Yeah.”

Ansgar coughed slightly as he stacked their cups in two neat little piles on the tray. “There’s really lots t’ do. But let’s take ya down the road a bit.”